


disaster averted

by RowboatCop



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: AU from early season 4, Awkward Flirting, Coulson calling Daisy 'Director Johnson' during sex, Coulson's massive crush on Daisy, Cuddling, Daisy's equally massive crush on Coulson, Director Daisy Johnson, F/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Phil Coulson's pink underwear, Sharing a Bed, UST, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, laughing during sex, mild Dom/sub themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-01 10:50:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15141476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowboatCop/pseuds/RowboatCop
Summary: Daisy and Coulson are forced off the road and have to share a hotel bed. I wonder what will happen?????????





	1. Chapter 1

She had nodded calmly when the clerk told them there was one room left, but as they climb back into the black SUV, protected from the torrential rain by the small hotel’s dingy awning, she leans her head forward, forehead rested on the steering wheel.

“This is a disaster,” she says, speaking down into the leather cover, her voice muffled but audible over the roaring rain outside.

“It's fine,” Coulson offers, more because she needs to hear it than because it's true, because honestly there are a lot of reasons he'd prefer not to share a room, a bed, with her. He's sure that even a year ago, it wouldn't have been a problem, but in the weeks that she's been settling into her new directorial role, things have become just...startlingly apparent to him. Things like how beautiful she is — not like he hadn’t noticed, just that he hadn’t _noticed_ — and how the way he’s always loved her is...not what he thought. (He wonders if it was always there, if he just never let himself acknowledge it, or if it's as new as it feels.)

“I know.” Daisy nods, raises her forehead off the steering wheel. “I'd have liked my first real mission to be a little...smoother, though.”

Because obviously that's what's bothering her, not the nerves about sharing a bed.

The mission hasn't been smooth, that's for sure. Between losing communications with the rest of the team and their forced stop at this seedy motel, the weather has definitely messed up their plans. Now it's well after midnight, and there's not much of a point in trying to make anything happen until it clears up. Still, though, that's hardly her fault, and it's nothing they can't fix once the weather calms down.

“It's not a disaster,” he says, soft voice and reaching a hand across to set gentle fingers on her shoulder, barely squeezing. She’d taken off her suit jacket when they got in the car, so his fingers slide over thin white cotton, and he can feel the heat of her skin. “We'll get some rest and drive the rest of the way tomorrow.”

“Right,” she nods, eyes cast back down, and he swears he can see her cheeks flush, her upper lip pulled for a moment between her teeth. “Rest.” He watches Daisy swallow, and for one second — less than that — he imagines that she's uncomfortable for the same reason he is.

A moment later, she's sitting back up straight, and he lets his fingers slip from her shoulder back to his lap. She moves the car to a space near their door, and they make a dash for it, finally reaching their room’s door with soaked clothes, water sliding down skin, shoes sloshing.

He slides off his jacket immediately, glad for the rare occasion that meant he pulled out a suit — glad for his mostly-dry shirt, anyway, if not the ruined wool.

Daisy laughs, at least, once they've locked themselves inside, and he's breathless for a moment as he watches her. She looks so good — happy and light and a lot of things she just _isn't_ often enough — with water clinging to her eyelashes and sliding down her neck and making her white blouse almost see-through.

“It’s c-cold,” she says, laughs through the phrase like this is a joke they’re sharing, and he can’t help but smile, too. He _wants_ her in that moment, maybe more than he ever has, wants her laughter and her hair plastered to her head and her transparent shirt showing all the effects of the chill in the air.

He forces his eyes away, looking over the small room and the small, _small_ bed.

“It's a double,” Daisy says a moment later, like she's read his thoughts, and he watches her gaze move from the bed to the undersized armchair to the desk to the tiny sink outside the bathroom and then back to the bed. “Pretty small. If you want, I could —”

“It's fine,” he tells her, even though it's not really fine, or at least _he's_ not really fine. They're soaked and neither of them are packed for an overnight, so all he can think about is that he's going to be next to her in just his underwear. Very close to her, possibly touching her, in just his underwear.  But there are a lot of reasons he can't let her know how uncomfortable he is. "We'll make it work."

“Right." Her face gets more serious, more purposeful, as she puts on her ‘team leader’ face, the one that says she's ready to take charge, to make a situation work for her. "What do you need?" She asks like she's ready to make anything happen if he needs it, and he honestly believes she could. The part of him that thinks his feelings are new says that this is the face that made him fall in love with her (except that can't be right, since it's not new, her ‘team leader’ face). He'd march into hell for that face, though, and now it settles something in his stomach —  fluttering, churning nerves — and makes it easier to try to handle the situation.

“I need to get out of my clothes,” he says, pulling at the wet wool on his legs.

Daisy nods. “Do you have something to sleep in?” All matter-of-fact, all team leader ready to solve a problem, and he maybe falls even more in love with her.

“My undershirt and...underwear are dry.” He stumbles over _underwear_ , and it's stupid but it feels like one of the more embarrassing things he's ever said to her, more embarrassing still when her eyes scan down his outfit, assessing but also something else.

“Good,” she says with a calm nod, though her gaze is locked below his belt, like she's trying to see through his pants. “And are you a boxers or a briefs guy, Agent Coulson?” It’s… _not_ her team leader voice. It's flirty and playful, a way she's always talked to him, but it makes his whole body hot and he's sure she can see his cheeks flush. He masters it, though, swallows down pure arousal and tries to smile, to be playful in return.

“I guess you'll have to wait and see, Director Johnson.”

(It shouldn't sound as good as it does when he says it — _Director Johnson_ — especially not right now, not when they're alone and about to strip down in a cheap motel room.)

She smirks at that, eyes cast to the floor for a moment, and then she shifts uncomfortably.

“My underwear are _not_ dry,” Daisy says, and he can't help the way his eyes are drawn back to her see-through shirt, to the lines of her bra, to her nipples poking up against the fabric. (It didn't used to be this bad, at least, he knows that. It didn't used to be so bad that he'd just...ogle her.) He forces his gaze away, swallows down a lump in his throat because the only thing he can think about is Daisy getting out of her wet underwear. Daisy without clothes. Naked.

Daisy _naked_.

_Daisy_ naked.

“Do you have anything…”

“Yeah,” she says, blessedly cuts him off because that wasn't anything close to his team leader voice. “In the car with my fieldsuit.”

He nods once, eyes focused very squarely on her face.

“I could —”

She cuts him off again.

“Keep your underwear dry, Agent,” Daisy says, her team leader voice and her flirty voice suddenly one and the same, and then she dashes back out of the room to the car.

He uses the quiet moment to pull off his white button down, only a little damp where the suit jacket didn't cover. He's managed to hang it up along with the wet suit jacket when Daisy comes barreling back into the room, bag tucked under her arm. The trip outside has left her even more wet, water traveling from her face down her neck in tiny rivulets, and he can so clearly imagine leaning in to lick one, up from the low opening of her blouse across her collarbone, up her neck. It feels like the only thing he's ever wanted — to taste the rain on her skin.

She pauses at the sight of him in his undershirt (he wishes he hadn't chosen a sleeveless style today because it’s cold and also because he feels more exposed with Daisy’s gaze on him), but just as he worries that he might sink through the floor in embarrassment, she _licks her lips_. She licks her lips and his cock practically jumps, moves from partly hard to fully hard — pulsing between his legs like the last fucking thing he needs.

“Do you want to shower first?” He manages to ask it like a normal person because what he needs is distance, a little space to get himself under control. And a hot shower.

“Yeah,” she nods, “I mean, if you don't…”

They stare at each other awkwardly, even though they're never this awkward with each other, but normally the air doesn't feel quite so thick, either.

“You go,” he says, gestures to the door, and she nods gratefully, takes only long enough to grab her change of clothes from her bag before she disappears into the tiny space and the sound of the shower echoes out into the bedroom.

Once he's alone for long enough to let the situation set in, he realizes how cold he is and quickly removes wet shoes and socks and hangs up his pants. The heater in the room is old and ineffective, so he wraps himself in a scratchy blanket he finds at the top of the small cupboard and sinks into the little arm chair.

She licked her lips, he's sure of it. He's just not sure what that means. _If_ it means something. If it can be allowed to mean something.

He _is_ sure he can't think about it, can't dwell on thoughts of Daisy, on fantasies of Daisy returning his feelings — not if he wants to get through tonight with minimal embarrassment, with their relationship intact.

By the time she exits the bathroom wearing a black tank top and hi-cut black panties, which he tries very hard not to look at, he feels more under control.

He rises from the chair, but all his detachment is undone by the way Daisy smiles at him, eyes travelling slowly down his legs. He feels it in his cock, shifts his hips to make it less obvious, and is briefly grateful for the chill in the room.

“I love the pink,” she says, and he startles for a minute, watches the smile stretched across her lips as she eyes his pale pink boxers.

He brushes a self-conscious hand down the front of his boxer shorts. Most likely, he'd have chosen a different pair of he’d known that she'd see them tonight — black or blue or plaid. Even though, truth be told, he likes the pink ones the best.

“They're…” He searches for some fake excuse, some way to explain, but Daisy's smiling face looks back up, eyes locked with his — flirty and playful and something wonderfully more, entirely earnest.

“They look good on you.”

“Yeah?” He can't hold back a smile, the desire to show off a little, which isn't new — he's always wanted to show off for her, always wanted her to think the best of him.

“A.C. is a pink boxers guy,” Daisy says, like it's mostly to herself, like it's answering a question she's wondered about.

As though her own obvious wondering has given him permission, his eyes skate down her body, the tight fit of her tank and the high cut of her black cotton panties and the length of her legs — answers to questions he’s never consciously wondered about her (things he'd never consciously allow himself to wonder).

“Most of my underwear is nicer than this,” she tells him, like he might be judging her.

“Oh?” He manages, because he doesn't know what else to say, because he's trying to imagine her in nicer underwear but he's not sure what to imagine.

“Like, with some lace detail? Not so…plain,” she answers as though he asked.

He nods, eyes drawn back to her underwear, to the fact that she's standing in front of him in her underwear.

“Those ones look…really...great.” The words sound stilted and awkward, but he doesn't know what else to say, doesn't understand how he and Daisy are having a conversation about underwear _in their underwear_.

“Yeah?” She smiles at him through the word, like it makes her just as happy as it made him to have approval, so he nods, perhaps too adamantly.

There's a long moment where they stare at each other, and he can see it when Daisy closes off a little, folds in on herself a bit.

“I'll get in the shower?” It comes out a question even though he means it as a statement, but the question seems to give Daisy enough confidence to nod and direct him into the bathroom, back to her leader face, back to controlling the situation.

“Yeah,” she says, takes two steps towards him in order to let him by. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from leaning towards her, brushing up against her as he walks by.

It's warm in the bathroom, warm in a way that reminds him how cold his limbs had been, and as he flips on the hot water and steps underneath, it's hard to stop thinking about Daisy — Daisy who was just naked in this space, Daisy who is now in her underwear just outside the door.

Normally, he would never — really, he'd never — but she's in her underwear and her legs are bare and he's about to climb into bed with her. Desperate times and all.

With less reluctance than he'd like to admit, he leans his left arm against the shower wall and runs his right hand down his chest to cup himself — already half hard in his hand, quickly rock hard as he thinks about Daisy. He thinks about how he might have changed the situation before, how he might have licked the rain water off her neck. He thinks about trailing his tongue from her chest to her ear as he wraps his fist around his cock, kissing up her legs as he pumps his hand, pushing his tongue inside her as he speeds his strokes and crashes towards orgasm. He comes quietly, pleasure pulsing up his spine, and turns his head to press his lips into his left bicep to keep down any noise, still conscious of Daisy in the next room.

After, he breathes in slow, deep breaths, lets the warmth of the shower into his lungs and his limbs and the back of his neck. There’s a stab of shame at letting himself use her for _this_ , but it doesn’t feel as bad as he’d expected it to. Maybe because he remembers the way her tongue had traveled across her lower lip as she looked at him. He grabs the bar of hotel soap — the one Daisy has already used — and washes himself quickly, but hangs there under the water, warming up, for another few minutes before shutting off the shower, drying off, and redressing.

By the time he returns to the bedroom, Daisy has crawled into bed, curled into a ball under the covers.

“This bed sucks,” she tells him, nose barely stuck over the covers. “But it's cold, so hurry up and get in.” Somehow he likes it, the idea that the bed isn't necessarily a scary scenario _for him_ , but rather an obstacle they're going to face together. They’re good at that.

He smiles, holds onto that feeling to chase away the sudden nerves as he removes his hand and sets it on the nightstand.

When he joins her, the bed is really hard and really cold, just as bad as she promised. And his initial attempt to keep space between them feels awkward — the bed is so small, there's no way to keep from touching her.

And then Daisy makes it impossible by sliding closer.

“You're warm,” she says, like an explanation for the way he suddenly knows what it feels like to have Daisy's bare leg pressed to his. Her skin is cold next to him, and even if he knows he should keep his distance, he just can't when she's cold and he could help.

“C’mere,” he whispers, extending his right arm towards her so that she can roll all the way towards him, happily seeking his heat. She burrows into his side, a lot of bare skin on bare skin, and he’s _so glad_ he jacked off in the shower.

“Coulson?” Her voice soft, lips pressed into his bare shoulder.

“Hmm?” It feels better than it should, more arousing than it should, given that he _just_ came. But he's in good control of himself, able to be a comfort and nothing more.

“Thank you.”

He hums a response again because “you're welcome" sounds too eager, too much like admitting how much he wants her in his bed.

They fall asleep slowly, the sound of rain and the shared warmth under the covers lulling them both, Coulson marveling that something that had seemed like such a disaster has turned out so purely good.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Thunder outside wakes him up from the middle of a dream he immediately can't remember. It's barely light outside past the curtains, maybe because it's early or maybe because of the rain, and he can't see the clock to tell which, but he can feel Daisy. She's spooned up against his back, her arm tight around his middle, her breath coming soft and even at the back of his neck.

He's hard, uncomfortably close to where her hand rests, and he thinks about pulling away. Thinks about it, but can't quite bring himself to move from the way her arm feels wrapped around him — strong and secure and safe.

Instead, he relaxes into her sleepy embrace, listens to her soft breathing and the occasional rumble of thunder, to the rain still pouring down outside. The heater finally managed to make a difference during the night, so it’s warm, and the crappy motel room seems almost...nice.

He's not sure how long it's been when she stirs awake, her arm tightening around him, hand over his belly button, leg pressing against his ass.

The breath she releases by his ear lights up his spine, makes his dick surge back to fully hard, and he freezes a little, suddenly more nervous and less comfortable.

“Morning,” she whispers, slightly gravelly and sleepy and gorgeous, and he can't stop himself from shifting back against her, seeking out more contact with the thigh that’s pressed to his ass.

“Morning.”

He can feel her kind of freeze and loosen her arm, feel the way she realizes their position, and he swallows, waits for her to pull back. She doesn't, though, instead seems to tighten her arm around him incrementally, like she's giving him a chance to escape, like she’s glad when he doesn't take it.

“It sounds like it's still coming down pretty hard,” she says, soft voice right by his ear.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “The road’s probably still closed.”

She hums a happy sound, like that doesn't sound like such a bad thing, and her hand rubs a soft circle around his belly. He shivers in her embrace, unable to hold back a sigh.

“This is…” She trails off and he can hear her press her lips together, hear a deep breath through her nose. “This is okay?”

He raises his right hand and presses against her hand on his belly for just a moment.

“Yeah,” he agrees, not sure what exactly he's agreeing to, but really sure that it's great, whether it's friendly comfort or… He doesn't dare think too much about the _or_. People can cuddle platonically, and maybe Daisy is just seeking more warmth, more comfort, this morning.

And then her hand slides lower, fingers brushing over the head of his cock, and Coulson can’t hold back a groan.

“Still okay?”

“Yes,” he says, or tries to say — he’s too short of breath to make the word. “Mmmhmm.”

Her fingertips make a slow, gentle map of him through his boxers, and it feels like his whole body is lit up. Coulson tries unsuccessfully to press his ass back against her leg and his cock forward against her exploratory hand at the same time.

“This is really inappropriate, isn’t it?”

He exhales — a hard, slow breath. “That depends,” he says, manages to say, manages to wrap his mouth around words even though his body has been reduced to the places where Daisy is touching him.

“I’m your boss,” Daisy points out, but she also shifts behind him to give her hand more room to explore, and he arranges his legs to encourage her to slide her fingers further between his thighs.

“You are,” he agrees, a little less good at putting together words as her fingers curl up under his balls, pressing into the muscle there and making his cock jump. He groans into the feeling, and rolls with it when Daisy shifts him onto his back, when she props herself up beside him so he's staring up at her face, unable to look anywhere else. There's a pang of something — not quite fear, but discomfort — of what she must think about seeing his arm in this situation, but her eyes are so soft as she looks him over that it's easy to let it go.

“I wanted to do this before I was your boss,” she says, like she’s reasoning through the issue, and her hands move to slide up his chest, to trail soft fingernails around his nipples.

“I didn’t know that.” He’s honestly shocked by that, had never imagined that Daisy had wanted him like _this_ , like anything.

“Did you ever…?”

He shakes his head and feels a tiny stab at the way her face falls a little, so he reaches to hold one of her hands to his chest when he fears she might pull away.

“I was your boss,” he says in explanation.

“You _were_ my boss,” she repeats, “which makes _this_ ,” she gestures between them, “a little less inappropriate?”

“Yes,” he agrees because it does. He's her subordinate now, does his best to treat her like that — like he was just keeping her seat warm for her — but they're on more equal footing and he likes it that way.

“But you never felt me up when you were my boss,” Daisy says, like this was a tremendous loss to her personally, and Coulson can't help but smile.

“I didn’t know I wanted to until...recently.”

She grins at that, like she's figured something out or maybe confirmed it.

“Until I was your boss.”

“Yes,” Coulson admits, wonders if she can tell that her being _his boss_ may actually have more to do with it than he’s entirely comfortable admitting.

He thinks she gets it because she’s suddenly wearing her team leader face — totally in charge of the situation, in charge of him, and he would still follow her into hell but it seems like things are going to be significantly better than that. Before he knows what’s happened, she’s straddling his hips, two thin layers of cotton between his straining erection and the warmth he can feel between her thighs.

“Well, Agent,” Daisy says, and her hips shift over his so he’s groaning. “It looks like our mission today is to stay dry in this hotel room.”

“Hopefully not too dry, Director Johnson,” he says, managing a playful smirk up at her even though he feels like he could melt into the bed.

It makes her laugh, head thrown back and hands on his chest, beautiful like he had seen her last night — light and happy and a lot of things he’d like to make her feel _all the time_.

A moment later, she leans over him, eyes soft and mouth curved into a smile, and he slides his fingers across the back of her neck as she kisses him — soft and easy and perfect even with morning breath. He could kiss her forever, he thinks.

“Mission parameters require that I take off your clothes,” Daisy murmurs against his lips, and Coulson chuckles — it’s surprising how little it bothers him, the thought of Daisy seeing him, seeing everything.

“Anything for the mission,” he teases, gets a tiny laugh in return.

“Your dedication will be rewarded,” she says, a wink as her fingers slip under the hem of his shirt, playing across the hairs on his belly.

When she sits up and moves between his thighs to give herself room to work, he reaches to the nightstand and puts on his hand, then shifts to allow her to roll his undershirt up and off his chest. He can’t help the way he holds his breath as she sees the scar for the first time, but her hands land over it, rubbing across his chest softly.

“Very good,” she says, as though he’d just accomplished something worthy of praise, and he can’t help the way he grins up at her, even though he’s pretty sure it looks stupid.

“Do mission parameters involve me taking off your clothes?” Coulson asks the question as his hands skate up the sides of her black tank top, feeling out the shape of her under cotton. She stops him before he’s able to cup her breasts over the shirt.

“Not yet,” she says, looking at him with something tentative in her eyes, like she’s testing a boundary. He nods easily, though, and her playful, bossy smirk returns.

He expects her to finish stripping him, but instead she begins to press kisses across his chest — over his nipples in a way that makes him tingle all the way to his toes, down his scar in a way that tingles differently — and he breathes into it, relaxes under her touch.

“Excellent work, Agent,” Daisy mumbles, lips parted and pressed to his belly, moving lower so that his abdominal muscles flex and tense, so that all he can do is wait.

By the time her fingers slip under the elastic waist of his boxers, he's trembling with the anticipation, with her quiet approval, and when her lips land just under the elastic band she’s moved, he groans.

“I really do love the pink boxers,” Daisy says, voice suddenly more earnest.

“I'm glad.” And he is. He's glad he's wearing something that's pleased her, but it feels especially good that she likes his favorite underwear, that she didn't assume a laundry mishap and that he didn't feel the need to lie about it.

Coulson watches her face as she pulls down his shorts, tugging the elastic out gently. As she frees his cock, he watches her lick her lips, like she had last night.

“Daisy.” Coulson sighs her name because he’s so wound up and because he likes to say it. When she looks up at him, her mouth perched _so close_ to his cock, he shakes his head to indicate that he really had nothing to say and gets another smile. And then her gaze turns a little knowing, a little more in-control.

“Director Johnson,” she says, _orders_  really, another moment of questioning visible in her eyes, and he nods because honestly it’s maybe the hottest thing he’s ever imagined.

Coulson exhales, inhales again to steady himself.

“ _Director Johnson_ ,” he repeats back. It sounds better than it’s ever sounded, and he’s never going to be able to say it in the field again without thinking about this — about her smile and her touch and her body perched over his. It’s even better when she leans down to run her tongue around the head of his cock — blindingly good, almost too much given how worked up he’s been.

He groans until there’s no air left in his lungs, until he’s desperately sucking in another breath, when Daisy’s lips finally close over the head of his cock. It’s too much, too much as she bobs her head and too much as her tongue moves over him, and he’s too close for things barely having started.

“Jesus, Daisy — Director —” He gasps for air, and Daisy pulls back. “Kiss me?”

She smiles and does as he’s asked, slides up over his body so that her belly traps his cock against his stomach and he can wrap his legs low around her hips as he kisses her, as he lets himself be kissed.

“What else do you want?” Daisy asks the question between kisses, between her lips and her tongue pressing into his mouth, and he groans at the question, at how much he wants. (So much.)

“I want to go down on you,” he manages, and he wonders if she can hear how _much_ he wants it, how much it’s fantasy fulfillment. He can see what it does to her, how her eyes seem to grow darker and she circles her hips over him, seeking friction she won’t find in this position.

“You’re my good, loyal Agent, aren’t you Coulson?”

“Yes,” he agrees, promises, and is disappointed by the way Daisy pulls back, the way her weight and her warmth is suddenly gone from his chest. When he turns to find her, she’s already pulled off her tank and her panties are sliding down her legs, and then she’s back over him, naked skin all over his.

His only complaint is that he didn’t get to look at her, to take her in, but he thinks the feel of her naked back under his palm and her naked stomach pressed to his is more than enough. Daisy is the one who turns them, so he’s over her, and there’s a slight tangle of limbs before her legs end up parted around his hips and he can feel how wet she is against his cock.

They both moan as she rolls her hips under his, like she’s seeking out friction, and her right hand curves around his neck to gently guide him down, down to give her the friction she wants.

“I thought maybe you’d be on top,” he confesses into Daisy’s breasts as he kisses a path down her body, because Daisy over his face is even more fantasy fulfillment, and she laughs underneath him.

“Next time,” she promises, and he can’t quite hold back a smile because it settles something in him that he didn’t even know was unsettled.

“There’s definitely a next time?” He sounds so hopeful to his own ears, and Daisy’s hands cup his cheeks softly, hold his gaze for a long moment, and he can see her own insecurities, her own worries about what he wants.

“Don’t you want —”

“Yes,” Coulson cuts her off. “I just didn’t know if you wanted…”

She looks so soft as she touches his face, fingers gentle as they trace over his early-morning stubble.

“There’s definitely a next time,” she says, obviously more confident. “Like, lots of them.”

“You don’t even know if I’m good, yet,” he points out, somehow managing to form the flirty words around his grin because there are _lots of next times_ , and Daisy laughs.

“You’d better impress me, then.”

So he does, or he sets out to, but then a lot of what he’s always done has been about trying to impress Daisy, so it’s not new. Just a new way.

He makes quick work down her body, leaving her breasts and her stomach behind at the soft pressure she’s putting on the back of his neck — not pushing, but _encouraging_ in a way he finds especially hot. It's the _encouragement_ , he likes that, but it's also the way it's Daisy being so clear about what she wants, Daisy asking for what he needs. The fact that she trusts him like that feels almost as good as her body under him, her skin against his lips.

Her legs tremble as he draws his nose down her pubic hair — rough and ticklish and smelling amazingly like Daisy — so he turns his head to press a kiss to her inner thigh.

“You’re a tease,” Daisy accuses from up above him, her thighs somehow quivering even more, but he can hear the laughter in her voice, so he presses another kiss to her thigh, takes his time working his way back.

She gasps, pelvis and her whole body shifted to meet him, when he presses a too-light kiss over her clit, her hips pulsing as he pauses with his mouth poised above her to let each breath wash over her. He admires her as he breathes — her fluttering eyes, and the curve of her lips, and her body stretched tight, and the glistening folds of her pussy.

“ _Coul_ son,” she whines his name, her fingers searching for purchase against the back of his head. “What are you _doing_?”

“Impressing you, _Director Johnson_ ,” he says, and he thinks she might be about to laugh before his tongue draws a careful circuit around her clit and it becomes a moan.

Her body is already shaking a little, so he wastes no more time, making firm, quick flicks of his tongue that she meets with pulses of her hips, her hand still comfortably resting on the back of his head. She comes fairly quickly, lips parted and head thrown back, but quiet — just clenched muscles and the telltale pulse under his tongue.

“Oh my god,” she says a moment later, when he’s making longer, slower licks, just enjoying her as she calms down. “That was really impressive.”

He hides his smile by pressing his mouth against her, and raises challenging eyebrows at her before turning his attention to pressing his tongue against her opening — firm and careful and nothing to overstimulate. She looks confused for a minute, and then groans and sinks back into the bed as he brings a finger to push inside.

She’s louder this way, he finds, louder as she stretches around two fingers, louder as he moves them inside of her. She’s also more active, her hips meeting his hand at each thrust, and as he feels her grow close, her hand pulling his mouth back to her clit.

When she comes, though, she’s still quiet — still tense muscles and head thrown back — but this time he doesn’t let her come down. Instead, he shifts, sits up so that his his lips move to her thigh and then her knee, and focuses on his fingers, on drawing her out. She practically thrashes on the bed, one hand gripping her breast and the other gripping his arm, and he watches as sweat beads up at her hairline and the skin on her her belly and legs turns to goosebumps.

He doesn’t know how long it is before she starts to tug at him, first his bicep and then his neck, but he slows and stops the work of his hand to crawl up the bed and kiss her, to hold her against his chest as she breathes through aftershocks.

“So, um,” Daisy says, mouth pressed into his chest a few moments later. “That was better than pretty much all the sex I’ve ever had.”

And he’s about to say something flirty, something about _impressing_ her, but he sees real vulnerability in her face.

“For me, too,” Coulson says with complete honesty, running a hand down her naked back, just slightly slick with sweat.

“Yeah?”

“I think because it’s _you_ , it feels…” It turns out he doesn’t have words for how it feels, but Daisy is smiling now, no longer so vulnerable, so he draws her into a kiss that turns into several that turns into a messy makeout — Daisy almost desperate, like her satiation of a moment before has entirely evaporated.

She climbs on top of him again, but this time she’s naked, and he takes time to enjoy it — to admire and touch every curve and scar and freckle. As he touches her, she curls her palm around his cock, strokes him slowly so he’s hard and aching.

“Do we need protection?” Daisy asks, and Coulson shakes his head, although he’s pretty sure there’s a condom in his wallet. She nods, though, and then swallows, looks a little too serious. And he doesn't want that — the too serious, the worries, the nerves.

“You want to guide me through the next phase of our mission, Director Johnson?”

She laughs, that seriousness broken, and he struggles to remember a time when sex was so fun — was so much about laughing and being so playful.

“Yeah,” she says as she shifts over him, so he can feel the warmth and the slickness between her thighs over his cock, and then her fingers pushing him into place. “I'll guide you through.” Her eyes turn more serious, but in a good way — deep and careful and full of everything they've meant to each other.

She holds his gaze as she sinks down over him, and he struggles to keep his eyes open, but he also can't bear to look away. Once he's fully inside her, she groans, long and low, and in a long moment of stillness, he finally lets his eyes shut, drowning in the feeling of being inside of her. Inside of Daisy.

“You should put your hands here,” she says, and he forces his eyes open and watches as she guides his hands to her hips.

“Like this?” He squeezes, fingers pressing into skin so he can feel the shape of her hip bone under his right thumb, and then he slides slowly up the curve of her waist and back down.

Daisy nods, and her hips make a slow circle — he's enraptured by the way her eyes flutter, by the way she feels around him. As she starts to move her hips faster, she guides his hands up to her breasts and leans into him.

Coulson’s jaw drops open as he watches and feels her movements, as she picks up her speed above him, tiny hitches in her breath letting on that she’s getting close, that she’s working towards her orgasm, and he just needs to hold on. He moves his hands, from cupping her breasts to sliding down her stomach to moving over her ass to gripping her hips again.

He can feel it when she comes, not just the way her back bows and her head drops backwards, but the pulse of her muscles around his cock. It’s impossible not to move a little more underneath her, thrusting up and deeper — maybe extending her orgasm, maybe chasing his own — until she sets a hand on his chest.

“Wait,” she breathes, and he nods, goes mostly still underneath her even though she doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t stop drawing him closer to the edge. Coulson watches, more than a little breathless, as she masters herself.

“Keep touching me,” she asks, or maybe orders, and he slides his hands from her hips to her breasts, teases his fingertips over her nipples, and then moves them back down. His fingers slide between her legs to feel the place where they’re joined — the base of his cock where it’s pressed inside of her, the wetness of her body stretched around his — and he groans. When his fingers press against her clit, he meets her eyes questioningly.

“Okay?”

Daisy arches her back like it’s good, but then reaches down to brush his fingers out of the way, to set her own fingers over her clit.

“You’ll like this,” she tells him, like she’s an authority on what he’ll like, which he’s pretty much fine believing.

And then she pulses the air around them, she uses _her superpowers_ , and he’s gone almost instantly — clenching and pulsing and practically lost inside of her. It’s the longest, most intense orgasm he can remember, but he’s not aware of that until he’s regained his breath, until he’s able to open his eyes and see Daisy sprawled on his chest.

“Told you you’d like it,” she says, raised eyebrows and a grin once she's realized he's recovered, and Coulson laughs, arms tight around her, head curled enough to smell her hair.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah that was…” He doesn’t even have words for what it was. Fantasy fulfillment or the best sex he could ever imagine.

His hands travel up and down her back as he feels her nuzzle against his chest, obviously enjoying the closeness, and then she tenses slightly and pulls back.

“Is this okay?” She rolls her eyes, at _herself_ he can tell, like she’s annoyed with herself for asking. “I mean, I don’t know if you want—”

“I want everything with you,” he says, soft and close and meaning it more than he’s ever meant anything.

She looks emotional and almost frightened for a minute, and then her face disappears against his chest, the two of them pressed together for a long moment before she draws a breath and speaks.

“It just seems like good things like this…”

“I get it,” he says because he does get it, because he understands Daisy’s fear of losing good things. What he can’t quite understand, though, is the idea that _he’s_ a good thing. _Daisy,_ probably the best person he's ever known, thinks of him, naked and spent and sweaty skin pressed up against her, as a good thing.

He closes his eyes and pulls her harder against him, bodies pressed tight together like maybe he can pull her under his skin, inside of him.

They're still for a long time, except for hands stroking across backs, up and down sides.

“It’s still pouring,” Daisy points out, and Coulson nods, listening to the dull roar of rain outside as he drags soft fingertips up and down her back.

“I guess we’re stuck here all day.”

“How terrible,” Daisy mumbles into his chest and then leans up enough to kiss him, firm but easy, her lips sliding over his without hesitation. “You think someone will deliver a pizza in this weather?”

He laughs but nods. “Probably.” The highway closure is just beyond this tiny town, after all, not preventing movement on residential streets.

“So,” she says as she pulls back just enough to stretch, all lithe and gorgeous, “pizza, nap, then more sex?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, unable to stop himself from smiling — so wide his face hurts.

“I should probably get in touch with Mack, too.” She presses a kiss over his scar with the reminder, and then another, and he draws his fingers up the back of her neck to ruffle her hair.

“Or maybe cell towers are still down because of the storm?”

“Even if they were, would anyone actually believe that I couldn't set something up?”

He laughs at the very real tinge of offense in her voice. “No,” he agrees.

"I'm sure everyone would understand if I just tell them I was busy seducing a subordinate agent, though.”

The words make him blush and squirm a little underneath her, but also hopeful again about what this means.

“Are we going to tell everyone?”

“Yes,” she answers easily, and he can't stop his grin. “I don't want to lie to the team, okay? And I think everyone should know that we're together.”

And he can’t stop smiling, feels a little like he _will never_ stop smiling, even as he questions her:

“Everyone will wonder why you'd be with me.”

“No,” she says, laying her head back on his chest. “They'll know. Or I'll tell them about how _impressive_ you are, and _then_ they'll know.”

He laughs.

“So you just love me for my impressive bedroom skills?”

“No,” she sighs. “There’s lots of reasons.”

He presses his lips to the top of her head, breathes in the scent of her as he kisses her there.

“There are lots of reasons I love you, too,” he says, voice quiet into her hair.

She hugs him, face pressed into his chest, for a long moment, and then sits up, smiling as radiantly as he's ever seen her.

“So, pizza first, then?”

 


End file.
